


you're starting to forget

by pyladic



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology, Hadestown - Mitchell
Genre: Drabble, F/M, Memory Loss, Prose Poem, Short One Shot, might be purple prose who can say
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-14
Updated: 2019-05-14
Packaged: 2020-03-05 12:15:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18828499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pyladic/pseuds/pyladic
Summary: The eyes on them are cold and watchful. Somewhere, there's smoke billowing into the sky, an empire of coal and steel growing harder and hotter every minute.





	you're starting to forget

They stretch out long, the days, longer and longer until she runs out of numbers to count them. The heat makes the sweat bead up on her arms, but it isn't right. She can't feel the warmth, the light on her face. It's bright but remote, wrong.

She works until her muscles ache, and keeps time with the pounding of her heart, _keep your head low, oh, you've gotta keep your head low, if you wanna keep your head,_ and she does, wants, needs to keep working. She knows too well what happens to those who dare to look up, to those who can't work anymore. She sees faces, blurring and indistinct, mouths stretching wide in silent screams.

The eyes on them are cold and watchful. Somewhere, there's smoke billowing into the sky, an empire of coal and steel growing harder and hotter every minute.

At the end of every day, the forewomen line them up and take their tools. They're young, the three of them, but there's steel in their eyes, gray and unyielding. No one crosses the three of them, not even the tallest and strongest of the workers.

They hand them in one at a time, and she steps forward at her turn, 40-83, head down, the head of her hammer braced against her forearm. Their gray eyes are heavy on the back of her head, but no one takes the hammer. She looks up, meets their eyes, and doesn't flinch.

"40-83," one of them says. She's never heard their voices aloud, not that she remembers, but so much is hazy and foggy that she's not sure she'd recognize the sound anyway. "Are you happy?"

She shifts back on her heels and repeats the word. "Happy?" It's unfamiliar, and her voice is rough with disuse and something else. She hasn't seen her face in the longest time, but someone told her that her eyes were red, and now she can't remember who.

"Are you well, 40-83?" They fold their arms and stare.

She looks back. For a moment, the number blends into something else, a word, something beautiful and light. There's a face in the back of her mind, smiling back at her, a boy that picks her flowers and sings, so beautifully that the whole world stops to listen.

"40-83?" Their voices call her back to the world she knows, and the face blurs and goes. She looks down at the hammer. She doesn't understand the question, but she knows there's only one answer she can give.

"I can work," she says, and her head hangs low.

**Author's Note:**

> I promised myself I was going to post something today to make up for my lack of posting. It's finals. Have mercy on me. Take this and go, even though it is not good.


End file.
